


If you can't stand the heat, break the chains

by Ofb23



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 00:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7244677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ofb23/pseuds/Ofb23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This started out as a “Let’s chain up d’Artagnan and watch him escape” fun. It turned into pure d’Artagnan whump instead…<br/>One shot set late season one/early season two. No spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If you can't stand the heat, break the chains

 

He took stock of himself. Two legs, free.

Start with the positive.

Two arms, shackled together behind him with heavy metal manacles, fixed to the wall he leant against.

Head, currently pounding away to a rhythm of its own creation. Though the blow to the side of his head was decidedly less painful than the thought of his own stupidity.

He quickly moved on.

Mouth as dry as wool, tasting of something foul. The thirst had set in a while back, gradually becoming more demanding in the want for water to wet his parched mouth and cracked lips. The oppressive heat wasn’t helping.

Current situation: he looked around the small airless room, the heavy door, the quickly fading light. Not good, he concluded, somewhat wryly to himself.

He tried to come up with more positives, forcing his mind away from the longing for water.

He was on his own two feet. Ok, so even if he wasn’t able to hold himself up the chains would have kept him in a semblance of standing. But currently, his two legs were holding (wobbling like a blancmange, maybe, but still holding).

And he was still alive.

That of course, was optimism speaking- alive was not necessary good, and he still wasn’t sure if he had been chained up for a reason pertaining to the plot he’d accidentally stumbled into, or if it was just as easy to chain him in a hot and airless room with no access to water and let him succumb to heat and dehydration.

He forced his mind away, on the verge of crying so great was the need for water. Back to the positives he mentally berated himself.

He was able to move his limbs. He flexed his arms upwards, trying again to reach the point on the wall the chains were shackled to, causing the muscles in his neck and arms to cramp again and his arms to fall back. Well, he corrected himself, he could mostly move, anyway. The chains that held him were heavy iron and unbreakable. He’d tried every link he could reach searching for a weak point, but found none. He’d tried to contort his wrists to free himself from the manacle, but even dislocating his thumb hadn’t helped, the manacles just too tight.

When his positive attitude became too much to concentrate on, he tried to imagine his brother’s reactions when they found him.

Aramis. “Well at least you completed your mission first.” He had, d’Artagnan reflected. He’d made the delivery that Treville had almost apologised for sending him on. Treville, of course, didn’t apologise for any of his orders, but d’Artagnan had learnt to read somewhere between the lines and knew the captain had thought the simple letter delivery beneath his highly trained soldiers. D’Artagnan had only been picked because he happened to be in the garrison, and about two seconds from injuring a new recruit who had been continually mocking his low parentage and questioning his commission into the musketeers. Treville never did look kindly on him when he came to real blows with the recruits and had found the solution in getting him away.

Anyway; d’Artagnan forced his mind back to Aramis, picturing the easy smile he was sure would grace the man’s face, even as his eyes would be searching for injuries, and d’Artagnan suspected by the feel of the sticky blood on the side of face and neck, he wouldn’t even get a chance to protest that he was fine.

Porthos. D’Artagnan felt his lips crack as he smiled at the image of him breaking down the door. Didn’t matter that it was reinforced with steel, he liked the image his brain conjured of the big man breaking it in two, storming in with pistol in one hand and his schiavona in the other, big and scary looking, and the relief when he came upon d’Artagnan. “see, told you, you were the trouble magnet!”

D’Artagnan tried to imagine the withering look he would give him for the comment, but couldn’t quite get his face to respond.

Okay, d’Artagnan was getting into this, now, and it helped him ignore the pressing need for a drink. Any drink. Even some of Duval’s rot gut he called wine that burned your throat as it made its way down. Hell, he would even take his chances and drink long and deep from the highly polluted Seine, even if it was mostly brown sludge and he could remember how many bodies had been pulled from there over the last year.

He forced his mind back from its tangible imaginations of liquid of any kind with increasing difficulty. Athos: His look would yell “what the hell happened to you and why weren’t you being more careful?” as his voice would say quietly and with little inflection “you delivered the letter then.” Then again, maybe he wouldn’t say anything, just let his glare do the speaking of worry and anger.

D’Artagnan wondered if losing royal correspondence was a hangable offence. At least if he died here, he wouldn’t face a firing squad he mused. Though at least a firing squad was quick, and not the torture he was facing at the moment.

Not that any of this was his fault, exactly. He might be feeling stupid for walking in on a situation with little thought as to what could be happening behind the door, but there had been little he could do about it, however much Porthos tried to contend that all the trouble they attracted was because of him. (D’Artagnan had listed all the events that had happened that had been nothing to do with him, but it hadn’t seemed to sway anyone especially as Porthos had seemed to be able to recount just as many back that did seem to be down to his bad luck)

It wasn’t even anyone after the damn letter he’d been asked by the Comte de la Marchan to deliver on his return to Paris to his Majesty. He hadn’t been expecting to have to wait for a reply, certainly that had not been part of his orders, but whatever the Comte had read in the letter, he’d taken great grievance from it and expected d’Artagnan to carry the letter airing those disagreements.

He thought again on the chain of events after leaving the estate, the coincidences that highlighted how bad his luck was sometimes. It was a two hour ride at a rather leisurely canter to the Comte’s estate. On the way back, however, one of the roads was blocked by a large grocery cart that had tipped on its side. After assuring himself that no one was injured and there were enough men to right it if they stopped arguing and worked as a team, d’Artagnan had back tracked and gone around. The going had been good, the weather humid and the gathering dark clouds whispering of possible thunder and lightning to break the heat of the day. D’Artagnan might have been concentrating more on that possibility and the internal debate of stopping and taking shelter from the storm or carrying on to the city (and the infernal memories such a debate had instantly dredged up) when his horse stumbled, throwing a shoe, and a maybe a tendon, in a small pothole.

He’d walked the lamed horse to the next village feeling contrite. He’d then been forced to detour onto the next village half an hour out of his way, cursing as he went, when he learnt that the blacksmith was ill and unable to shod the horse.

The blacksmith in the next village had not been ill. He’d been alive and well and in the middle of trade agreements for an arsenal of weaponry that would have made any army proud. D’Artagnan guessed that the man dressed in blue silk finery was neither with the army, nor would he take kindly to a musketeer meddling in his plans. D’Artagnan might have been reckless but even he could see the wisdom in retreat and had been stepping quietly back out again when something hard and metal had blindsided him and he knew no more till he woke chained to the wall.

His current predicament did not get any better when he thought through the sequence of events.

He, of course, had the utmost belief that he would be found by his brothers. As the long night had passed into the brightness and full heat of the day, and the ever present need for water had filled his concentration like a scream, he trusted that they would set out to look for him at first light. He had absolute faith that they wouldn’t stop until they did find him.

What he wasn’t so sure about was his current ability to still be alive when they did find him. His raging thirst had grown with every hour, had hampered every thought. His concentration splintered and fractured, dragging him into long periods where he had no recollection of what he had been doing or thinking, usually brought around by the snap of metal as the chains stopped his descent to the floor and pain screamed across his shoulders and down his numbing arms.

cccc

Athos stood in front of him. It wasn’t the Athos he had been imagining earlier, though. This Athos’s face was contorted with rage and disappointment, yelling at him to move. It was so unlike Athos that even in his dream, d’Artagnan had a semi awareness that it couldn’t be the real Athos, however he couldn’t seem to stop the dream, wake up.

This Athos held a wooden cup, outstretched towards him. D’Artagnan could swear that he could smell the fresh, clean water inside from 5 feet away, and the desire was overwhelming. But Athos just stood there, cup just out of reach and taunted him to come and get it. To get out of those bindings, to free himself because no one else was going to, and was he stupid or something? He was a musketeer, get out. No musketeer was stupid enough to die alone in a blacksmiths workshop because he couldn’t get water. If he was good enough to be a musketeer, he would have got himself free by now.

D’Artagnan wanted to yell back at him, could feel the indignant rage build, the anger drumming up. But his throat caught on the dryness and all that came out was a throaty splutter and he wondered if he truly was good enough to be a musketeer when he was dying all alone from thirst of all things. No great battle wound, no sucking chest wound, no glorious tales of heroism. No, he was chained to a wall and he needed a drink. How foolish could he be?

The screaming went on and on till the mirage warped and changed, Aramis this time, the wooden cup held mockingly close, d’Artagnan helpless to reach it. Aramis wasn’t yelling but his smile was a twisted, ugly thing; pitying, besmirching, belittling d’Artagnan as Aramis let forth with quiet taunts on his character, repeating Athos’s words but in a horrible, grating sing song voice.

D’Artagnan tried to twist away from his friend only to be confronted by Porthos, large, towering over him, the wooden cup in his hand and well out of his reach. D’Artagnan had shrunk, barely reaching the waist of this giant Porthos, who held the cup over his head and looked down on him.

‘Ah, the little boy who thought he could be a musketeer.’ The large man sneered, turning the cup and letting the water fall from a great height. D’Artagnan twisted upwards, despite the pain that squeezed every muscle in his neck and shoulder in one large clamp as he moved, desperate to get to any of the water that was raining down from the cup in one large sheet of water. However much he moved, though, however much he fought, however much he pulled against the chains and twisted his head and opened his mouth the water never seemed to reach his desperate mouth. It rained around him, above him, to the sides of him but never touched him. He was bone dry, not even sweating now. And Porthos was there, grinning down at him, and Aramis was sneering at him and Athos just shook his head in pitiful horror at the behaviour on display.

The muscles in his neck contracted violently, dropping d’Artagnan against the chains that held him up, even as dream warred with reality and he desperately tried to catch the water he had seen falling from above him.

But there was no water.

D’Artagnan hung limply against the chains, his neck twisted as the muscles went into spasm, his dry mouth like sandpaper preventing the scream leaving his throat, unable to catch a breath, the air too thick to breathe.

There was no Porthos.

No Aramis.

No Athos.

The room was empty, the heat oppressive, and he was chained to the wall.

The muscle in his neck finally gave up and d’Artagnan felt his head drop forward, unable to at that moment co-ordinate the movement needed to lift it up again. He panted with an exertion that had all been in his increasingly ruptured imagination. His thirst raged so much it filled his vision, his hearing, his smell, his taste. Even his sense of touch crawled, itched with the need to drink. Everything came down to that dreaded thirst and for the moment d’Artagnan didn’t have the energy to fight for anything more.

Lethargy overwhelmed him, his legs unable to hold him, unwilling to bear his weight any longer. The chains took the weight, pulling increasingly at his shoulder joints as he sunk lower into them.

Despair took hold and wouldn’t let go. He tried to think on the positives again but couldn’t move past his desperate thirst and the ever pressing heat. He wasn’t sweating anymore, but as he took stock, he wasn’t sure that was a good thing. He was going to die alone, a failure, a pitiful individual who had walked in on an arms deal and not been quick enough to defend himself. His head hung low, dizziness hindering his ability to look up without the world spinning enough to make him feel nauseous, and he let the pull of exhaustion give him a moment peace.

But the peace could never last.

They were back. Bigger, angrier. Provoking him with hateful words. The wooden cup, over flowing with fresh, clean water held out to him but always just out of reach, taunting him. They took it in turns, or all three of them. Words flowing between them but not the quick wit and banter he was used to, these words were mocking, cutting, as sharp as the swords they fought with and all aimed at him. As much as he didn’t want to be alone, he desperately wished them to leave him be.

D’Artagnan started getting annoyed. He was thirsty and all they could do was stand there with a cup that could save him and call him useless. He wasn’t useless. He was chained to a wall for God’s sake! And they weren’t helping him, he began to rage at them, throwing their words back at them as he twisted and turned against the chains that bound him.

He was a musketeer. He deserved to be a musketeer. He was good enough, he had proved himself over and over again. And he would show them now. He could get out of these damn chains. They were just metal, after all. And they were only screwed into a brick wall. A brick wall! How was that going to hold him! He’d been tied to barrels of gunpowder and escaped. He could get out of these bindings too.

Pain bit hard and fast, digging into the muscles of his neck and shoulders, unrelenting in its ferocity as the muscles cramped. D’Artagnan was raging now though, as harsh as the pain was it played a distant second fiddle to the merciless thirst. He twisted his shoulders, far beyond what he should have done, feeling a moment of triumph as he finally touched the metal ring the chain ran through, only for despair to crash down again when his arms faltered, his touch falling away as the muscles refused to cooperate anymore.

He hung on the chains, breath coming in short desperate spurts, as he looked up at Athos. The man was silent now, his glare chilling the room around them. ‘You can’t do it.’ He taunted, his eyes cold. And d’Artagnan fought, determined to prove Athos wrong, that he would do it. He could do it.

He twisted and reached, ignoring the screaming pain and getting a hold again of the small metal ring that bound him to the wall, latching on with a few fingers and refusing to let go even as the pull on his shoulder reached almost unbearable proportions.

For a moment all he could do was simply hold on, his shoulders screaming at him, his neck in a spasm that forced it round and down, the muscles along his arm beginning to shake with the exertion. He tried to drop the hold, the pain too great, but his fingers cramped, refused to unbend and stayed latched onto the ring.

D’Artagnan felt a bubble of hysterical laughter try and crawl up his parched throat. He was chained to the wall and he had just bound himself with his free hands even further behind him. He slumped, the hysteria turning to desperate tears, though even his tears seemed to refuse to fall at the moment. The slump felled him to the side, bringing all his weight onto his quickly numbing fingers, locked in position and refusing to budge, and moving the ring just a fraction in the wall.

He stilled, unable to fully comprehend what was real, what was dream, what was simply his imagination. He wrenched the ring sideways again anyway, desperate adrenaline suddenly flooding his shaking muscles and lending them a strength he didn’t know he possessed. The ring moved again, a definite crumbling of the mortar it was screwed into as it gave way under the pressure. He tried again, but it held firm. Not about to give up now, he pushed himself up on trembling legs, only to force his weight to the other side, forcing the weight onto his other fingers, pulling the ring to the other side, feeling it wrench sideways far more than it could move up or down against the hard brick.

Backwards and forwards he moved, pulling the ring side to side, as the unrelenting pain grew in his shoulders and neck, as his legs grew weary and tried to refuse to move, the bigger muscles in his legs beginning to spasm as he forced them over and over to push up on first one side, then the other.

Time was a lost concept on him at the moment. If asked, he wouldn’t have been able to say where he was. What day it was. Even why he was there. He wasn’t sure he could even remember his own name. His whole reality boiled down to the ever pressing thirst, the oppressive heat, and the small ring that was moving side to side in a slowly increasing hole.

When the ring finally wrenched free d’Artagnan simply fell to the floor. With nothing to hold him up, nothing to keep him standing, he fell to the floor in a heap with the momentum of his swing, still swaying side to side in his mind if not in his body. Awareness that he had pulled the ring free came on him in fits and starts, and he found it difficult to remember why it was even significant.

The unrelenting clamour for water, though, soon exerted itself to the top of his consciousness again. He couldn’t have stood if he tried, couldn’t even get enough purchase with his legs on the stone floor to propel himself forward. He needed his arms, his hands he finally realised when he hadn’t moved. He just wasn’t sure how to use them. Turn onto his back, maybe? Then his hands would just be caught under him, he mocked himself. The demand for water sharpened his thoughts momentarily enough to realise that now there was enough slack to the chain, he could bring his arms forward, loop the chain under his legs. His shoulders and arms weren’t keen on the idea as it turned out, but he had come too far to let such a simple movement stop him now. Inch by painful inch he convinced convulsing muscles to move, to drag the heavy chain under him, rolling onto his back to aid the progress when he could. Then he simply lay, staring up at a coal blackened ceiling, unable to move anymore.

The thirst woke him. The simple, oppressive yearning for water didn’t allow him to stop for long, bringing him back to a semblance of reality once again. D’Artagnan managed to move his head, slightly, to look around the room from this new perspective. The room was empty and d’Artagnan felt a pang of relief quickly followed by a pang of loneliness. Part of him knew his imagination had played tricks on him, that his real friends would have helped not hindered him, but it felt so real he couldn’t help but be glad they were no longer present, even as he longed for their company.

His eyes fixed on the door. There would be water through there, he was sure. He dragged himself up, feeling a weakness and a lethargy dragging him down at every small movement. Even his eyelids felt too heavy, too cumbersome as he tried to blink and clear the salt crusting his eyelids. He dragged himself, and the heavy chain, towards the door, his mind fixed on only one thing.

Water.

He didn’t remember getting through the door. The big heavy door swung open easily, not even locked. No one had expected him to get free. The shift of cooler air from the second room felt like a caress on his overly hot face, the air suddenly felt a little easier to breathe, no longer weighed down by heat and humidity.

He saw the metal pail a blacksmith would use to rapidly cool off metal, heading for it with excitement knowing it would be full of water. When he pulled it over in his desperation he almost cried. When he realised it was empty anyway, a desperate grief stole through him.

He might have screamed, but he had no voice now. He might have wept, but he had no tears. He might have been crushed but he had got this far, and he wasn’t going to stop now. His world might have shrunk to the blacksmith’s shop, but he knew there was life outside.

And he needed to find water.

Still on a parody of hands and knees, d’Artagnan pulled himself across the floor and somehow got through the door. Light seared his vision, blinding him momentarily. As his vision cleared, he was able to make out one of the best sights he’d ever witnessed: a trough of water. At one time the thought of lowering himself to a horse trough might have filled him with revulsion. Now it glimmered in the sun, its surface rippling invitingly as he pulled himself over to it, no other thought existing but the urge to drink its entire contents. He dipped his cupped hands in, the ring that had fastened the chain to the wall still dangling off two of his cramped fingers, the simple cleansing of the cool water bringing a sigh of relief as it filled his cupped swollen and cramping hands.  He brought the water to his lips.

The first drop was heaven.

The first gulp delicious. The second was even better. He dipped his hands again and again, thirst pressing him on to drink more and more and more. A thirst in that moment that was insatiable.

The stomach cramp caught him unawares. He tried to breathe deeply, but his mouth was full of water and some of it tried to enter his lungs, and he coughed, the water, the precious water forcibly ejected from his stomach to soak the bone dry mud of the ground in front of him. Acid and bile felt like it was ripping his throat in two as he retched again, another giant wave of water soaking him, the ground, his hands. He coughed, unable to for a moment catch his breath as his throat burned. With a singlemindedness that had got him free from the wall, that had pulled him across the blacksmith’s shop he cupped his shaking hands once again, brought handful after handful of the water to his mouth. Only to vomit it all up once again.

cccc*

‘Stop, d’Artagnan.’ The shout sounded muffled and far away yet somehow familiar. He ignored it, needing, desperately wanting just the water even as it refused to stay down.

‘Stop, d’Artagnan, you’ll only vomit again.’ He didn’t even look up at the words, too desperate for the need to drink. He certainly didn’t comprehend the sound of approaching horses. He only reacted when two arms wrapped around him and pulled him away from his precious water, fighting with an energy he didn’t know he possessed against the strong hold that was trying to get him away from his salvation.

‘Shush, d’Artagnan, it’s ok, but you must drink slowly.’ But Aramis had taunted him too much, already, had held out a wooden cup and kept it just out of his reach. He wasn’t going to let anyone do that again. He struggled, desperation lending strength to his movements.

‘D’Artagnan, we’ve got you.’

Porthos’s gentle words held little commiseration at the moment, d’Artagnan’s only focus on the desperate need for water. But just as much as he fought, Aramis refused to let go, and now Porthos and Athos were there helping him, and there was no way that d’Artagnan could win against all three of them.

He didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know how to fight anymore, against them, against the arms that held him, against his contracted muscles, against his desperate thirst.

He just needed to drink.

Just wanted a drink.

He slumped back against the body behind him, no longer able to hold himself upright, a keening grief filling him. A gentle hand brushed over his head, pulling his hair from his face. A face swum into his vision, hands holding his upper arms as he watched Athos’s lips moved, his look far more gentle than d’Artagnan had imagined earlier, but d’Artagnan couldn’t understand what was being said.

Then a water skin replaced Athos. It was held to his lips and he gulped painfully, desperately, gratefully, till a few seconds later it was pulled away. He might have moaned at that because someone gently shushed him.

He was moved like a young child unable to do anything for himself. Unable to comprehend what was happening anymore, d’Artagnan didn’t, couldn’t resist, feeling a lot like he was floating above everything, far removed from the present reality. Snapshots broke through, occasionally bringing reality into sharp relief till it dissolved into a cloud again. He caught a glimpse of a hammer and the sound of metal meeting metal. He was undressed, divested of his leather jerkin, boots pulled from his feet. He vaguely wondered if he was going to be stripped naked but the rest of the clothes were left, the cooler air wrapping around his uncomfortably hot and itchy skin.

At one point he woke enough to realise he was being carried between Athos and Porthos. Meaningless words flowed around him as d’Artagnan realised the sun was sinking towards the horizon, turning the sky crimson, nowhere near as oppressive as the heat in the room. The chain was no longer attached, he realises, though the manacles were still too heavy on his wrists. He wanted to ask for them to be removed too because his shoulders ached painfully.

To his alarm someone pulled off his breeches and he thought about fighting the hands that held him, but the thoughts wouldn’t convert to action at that moment. His worry about exposure soon disappeared, however, replaced by the sudden sensation of cool water lapping around his feet and then legs. He was carried deeper in to a pool of water, d’Artagnan glad for the moment they didn’t expect him to try and move himself as the water deepened around him and he soon found himself floating encased in the watery relief.

The water closed over his shoulders and he suddenly thrashed, a survival instinct kicking in as the water threatened his face, despite the still pressing need for water.  Calm hands and meaningless words calmed him, and a water skin was briefly held to his lips. He relaxed again into the dream state, deliciously cool water feeling like iced silk on his overheated skin, his head safely resting on the hard shoulder of one of his friends. His eyes closed as he let his exhaustion pull him under again, safe in the knowledge that his friends would keep him above the water.

cccc

He had been staring entranced at the glowing red embers left from a campfire for a while before he realised what it was. Darkness extended beyond the fire, the sound of crickets chirping restlessly somewhere off to the left. He was curled on his side, too exhausted to think about moving, and stared at the fire. Other sounds came to him, the muted sounds of conversation somewhere and curiosity to see who was there was almost enough to break him free from the dream state he was floating in. To satisfy his curiosity, though, seemed to warrant a use of energy that he didn’t currently possess, and instead he continued to just stare at the embers.

It took longer than it should have to realise the embers had disappeared. Longer still to realise someone had crouched before him, blocking the view, Athos’s mouth moving as though he was speaking. Endless moments passed before d’Artagnan realised he was saying his name. Other words came to him, hateful, spiteful words that had been thrown at him, a wooden cup of water held just out of reach and d’Artagnan fought to get upright as the need for water became suddenly all-encompassing again.

The ease with which he was caught and held might have embarrassed him if his attention wasn’t diverted by the appearance of a water skin, the cool water immediately easing his parched and burning throat.

‘D’Artagnan?’ he looked up at Athos, who he realised was beside him, and who’s arms were holding him upright. ‘Do you remember where you are?’

D’Artagnan thought long and hard, his mind moving sluggishly. ‘Blacksmiths.’ He finally answered. His voice was scratchy, pulling at his throat like hot knifes and glass. He tried to clear it, but when a cough threatened he ceased, breathing deeply around the nausea that rose unbidden from the pit of his stomach. Emotions that d’Artagnan couldn’t understand, something like relief and sorrow passed over Athos’s face before it returned to its more usual placid set.

‘Do you remember what happened?’

Again, d’Artagnan did try, but the thoughts felt like they were having to be moved through thick sludge in his brain and the effort quickly exhausted him. ‘You wouldn’t let me drink.’ He finally answered, dropping his head to Athos’s shoulder to try and conserve some energy.

‘No sleeping yet.’ Aramis this time, crouching in front of him. In his mind d’Artagnan glared at him. In reality he could barely keep his eyes open. He watched as Aramis looked over his shoulder at someone, Porthos, his mind finally supplied, bent over something by the glowing embers.

‘Why were you chained up, d’Artagnan?’ Athos asked, trying to gain his attention.

Something pulled at d’Artagnan’s attention as he thought about the chains that had been wrapped around his hands. Something he had to tell them. The thought left as instantly as it came, though, replaced with a need to explain that he had tried, he hadn’t meant to be captured and chained up, he didn’t have a chance to fight and then he was chained and he couldn’t get free. ‘I tried.’ He struggled, lifting his head and gaining some distance to look at Athos properly, not noticing as his muscles shook with the effort. ‘I tried.’ He repeated.

‘I know, d’Artagnan. You broke free from the wall.’ Athos soothed him, reaching out a calming hand.

‘I tried to get out. I tried to get a drink. You held it too far away, though. I couldn’t reach it. I tried though, I did try.’ The words tumbled from his mouth rapidly, little more than a whisper, bringing once again a cough that finally brought an end to the words, though it thankfully didn’t cause his stomach to lose its contents.

Athos pulled him back into his steady hold so d’Artagnan missed the devastated look on his friend’s face, Athos embracing him once again and bidding him gently to be quiet as all he seemed to be able to do was rasp in a breath and try and pull away from the hold.

Aramis placed two hands, cupping d’Artagnan’s face and forcing his attention to the man. His face was solemn and serious; no hint of the horrid mocking smile he had worn last time. ‘D’Artagnan, you got yourself free. Now rest. Porthos is just getting you some broth and then you can sleep again. We can talk more when you have rested.’

As if bid by the words to approach, Porthos joined them, taking a seat with a gracefulness that belied his large frame on the other side of d’Artagnan to Athos. He held a small cooking pot, and up close d’Artagnan could smell the beef broth. ‘Here, whelp, this will help restore your strength.’

Unable to raise even a finger in protest at being fed like a child, and desperate for anything to quench his thirst, d’Artagnan submitted passively to being fed spoonful’s. The broth was warm and meaty, but thin enough to not require any effort in swallowing the mixture down. He continued even when his eyes closed of their own violation, not remembering stopping as sleep claimed him once again.

cccc

He was back in the Blacksmiths but something was wrong. Looking down at his hands, d’Artagnan realised that he was unfettered, free to move around. Hints of smelt and gunpowder hung in the air. He turned in a circle, taking in the room, trying to remember what he was meant to be doing, a pressing need to move weighing on him. For the life of him, though, he couldn’t think what it was, however much he racked his brains, the memory wouldn’t resurface.

He wondered where Athos, Aramis and Porthos were? They had been here; he was sure of it. He turned in a circle once again, slower this time, taking in the room in more detail, looking for something out of place, something he was meant to be doing.

A fire burned merrily in the pit, red hot and fuelled by peat judging from the smell, bellows stood primed and ready at the side to keep it going. He shied away from the heat, not wanting to get any closer, any hotter. The sight of the metal pail, filled with water, brought a hollow feeling to his stomach and he quickly moved on. The anvil stood, hammer and tongs leaning against it, ready for the day’s work to begin, for the weapons they would help forge.

He came up fighting, fear clogging his throat as he remembered what he had walked in on, the arsenal of weapons that no one should ever feel the need to possess being bartered for. His look skittered around him, confused about where he was and what was happening warring with the need to find the man buying enough weapons to arm an army.

‘Woah. What is it whelp?’ Porthos had appeared in front of him, looming large over him so that d’Artagnan had to crane his neck up to see him, memory warring with reality briefly as a giant Porthos held a cup out of his reach and poured water that never reached him, and he scrambled to his feet in sudden fear. But Porthos stayed at his normal height, and d’Artagnan realised he was able to look at him eye to eye again, and reality gained the upper hand allowing the fear to abate.

‘Weapons.’ D’Artagnan stepped towards Porthos, taking a grip of the leather jacket he wore, desperate for him to understand. ‘weapons.’

‘Ok.’ But d’Artagnan could see that Porthos didn’t understand, and he gripped tighter, attempting to shake the big man though he barely moved.

‘Weapons. He was buying weapons. An arsenal of them.’ He spoke carefully to get his point across, his concentration better than earlier, allowing the words to string together in some semblance of order.

‘Ok.’ And Porthos did look like he was beginning to understand, but he wasn’t moving, didn’t even appear concerned.

‘He has them all.’ D’Artagnan pressed on, unable to understand why Porthos didn’t look more concerned, gripping as tight as he could though even now his arms were beginning to tremble with the effort.

Porthos dislodged the hold on his arms with little effort but replaced it with a comforting hold of his own, using it to steady d’Artagnan. He eased him back to the mat he had been lying on, and getting him to take a seat, moved to crouch in front of him, not relinquishing the hold he had on d’Artagnan’s arms. ‘It’s not yet dawn. Can’t do nothing till it’s light. Then we go tell Treville.’

‘But’

‘We go back to Paris.’ Porthos said firmly. ‘Tell Treville. But we won’t forget. Whatever’s going on, we’ll find out and put it right.’

D’Artagnan stared back at Porthos for a moment, wanting to argue, but exhaustion was dragging at him and as he looked around at the dark night, not even a hint of sunrise on the horizon, he could see the logic of the words. He took the water skin Porthos held out to him, gulping at its contents though he was nowhere near as thirsty as he had been.

‘Now go to sleep.’ The voice was slightly muffled, but familiar in its grumpy tone, and when d’Artagnan looked around, startled by the voice, he saw Athos lying close to the remains on the fire, resting against his saddle, voice muffled by the hat over his face.

‘You heard the man.’ Porthos said with a grin, dropping his voice as he added ‘better let him have his sleep, don’t want him even more grumpy than usual come morning.’ He said with a wink.

A muffled huff came from Athos, but he didn’t say anything more.

And d’Artagnan felt his own lips turn up in an answering smile as he obediently lay back, in truth no longer able to keep his eyes open. He fell asleep with Porthos’s hand resting amiably on his shoulder.

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Sleep wouldn’t let him in peace. Dreams haunted the time between closing his eyes and opening them again, mostly of fires and chains and muscle cramps and taunting words and haughty smiles and a wooden cup full of water that might have brought tears to his eyes.

He woke with a feeling he should be doing something. Opening his eyes, he was met with the sight of Aramis, crouched in his sight, his hand resting on his shoulder. He flinched away, an apology escaping his lips before he even could process why. Aramis looked slightly startled but deliberately stilled. ‘D’Artagnan,’ He spoke softly, his smile warm and reassuring rather than the vicious smirk from the night before. ‘you’re safe.’ The words were simple but they did help to bring d’Artagnan back to the here and now.  He held a water skin up ‘Drink?’

D’Artagnan looked down on himself, realising he was dressed in just breeches and a linin shirt. The manacles drew his eye as he rolled into a sitting position. ‘Porthos got the chains off yesterday before we brought you here, but we didn’t want to risk the time needed to remove the cuffs.’ Aramis told him, taking the water skin back when d’Artagnan had his fill. He was glad to find that the thirst had mostly abated now. ‘Athos has gone to find someone to shod your horse, and buy breakfast.’ He added when d’Artagnan’s growing awareness moved to take in the rest of the camp, searching for the others.

D’Artagnan licked sore and cracked lips before asking ‘Porthos?’

‘Dealing with his morning ablutions.’ Aramis said.

‘They were dealing weapons.’ D’Artagnan told Aramis, apropos of nothing. His thoughts were still scattered despite the increasing clarity, and though he thought he remembered telling this to someone already, he couldn’t remember the details.

‘Yes, you told Porthos last night.’ Aramis said patiently moving to sit down and stretch his legs slightly.

D’Artagnan tried to slot this in place as a real memory, but it was a loose grasp at best. ‘We need to find them.’

‘We will.’ Aramis reassured him. Before d’Artagnan worked out what he was doing, Aramis was reaching for his head, repositioning it so that he could examine something on the side. D’Artagnan didn’t flinch this time, but it was close, and he stilled under Aramis’s ministrations. ‘Quite the bump you’ve got there.’ D’Artagnan did flinch when Aramis’s fingers pressed too close to it. ‘Sorry, just checking if it needs stitches. It seemed…inconsequential yesterday.’ He added.

D’Artagnan turned his head, dislodging Aramis’s hands with an ease that told him Aramis knew to let him. ‘How did you find me?’

‘Luck.’ Aramis answered.

‘And skill.’ A voice from the side made d’Artagnan jump slightly and turn quickly at Porthos’s approach. ‘Don’t forget the skill.’

‘Mostly it was luck.’ Aramis disagreed.

‘Good to see you awake, d’Artagnan.’ Porthos added, clearly ignoring Aramis’s judgement on how they found him. He came forward and took a seat in front of them on a large overturned log. ‘We knew you made the Comte’s estate, and that you likely hadn’t followed the main road back again.’

‘And we just happened to stop for food at midday at an inn and heard some men squabbling about an overturned grocery cart and a blocked road.’ Aramis took over the story, throwing a look at Porthos that clearly said “see, luck!” ‘We traced the road back and followed the only detour and came across an older man who remembered seeing you the day before, asking about the blacksmiths. He pointed you in the direction of another village, and we simply followed the same instructions.’

‘Thank you. For getting me out of there.’ D’Artagnan said quietly, remembering how sure he had been they would come, reassured that he hadn’t been misguided by the certainty. He also remembered the despair that he wouldn’t last long enough for them to find him.

‘D’Artagnan…’ He looked up at Aramis as he hesitated over his name. ‘you got yourself out of there.’

D’Artagnan was shocked. His last full memories were of being chained in the blacksmiths, and then waking here at some point last night.

‘Don’t you remember?’ Porthos prompted.

‘No…not fully.’ He paused, as flashes of memory interspersed with what he was convinced was dreams flashed through his mind. ‘I thought I was dreaming.’

‘You pulled the stake clean out of the wall.’ There was a hint of pride in Porthos’s voice that soothed d’Artagnan for some reason. ‘Pulled yourself out to the water trough though you were barely conscious.’

Aramis once again seamlessly carried on from Porthos, as if they had rehearsed in advance. ‘You were overheating. You were far too hot, and obviously very dehydrated. We brought you here to the lake to cool you off as quickly as we could. It’s only a short walk from the village.’

D’Artagnan looked around, trying to fit all the parts of his distorted memories into place. It was still early, judging by the dawn call of birds in the nearby copse of trees. The lake stretched off to their left, big enough for a small island to be visible in the centre. The sky was light grey, the air warm but with a hint of a breeze. The simple campfire was on the shores of the lake, out of necessity it seemed as it wasn’t an easy place to set it up. ‘I remember floating.’ He said at length. ‘felt like heaven.’ He added with a smile.

The sound of horse’s hooves broke through the bird calls, and they turned to watch Athos walking on horseback towards them, d’Artagnan’s newly shod horse on a trailing lead behind him. There was no hint of a limp, even, and it appeared the horse had benefitted from the break if nothing else.

‘How did you find him?’ D’Artagnan wondered, watching Athos dismount and tie the horses loosely to a low branch.

‘He hadn’t moved from the shop. Was waiting for ya.’ Porthos answered.

A half glazed memory of drinking from a trough like the one he had tied his horse too came swimming back. The desperation to drink anything returned with it, though so did the unpleasant ending when he had had his fill.

‘Breakfast.’ Athos announced, coming over to their impromptu gathering and dropping a cloth wrapped package in the middle of them, the smell of bread wafting in the air. D’Artagnan felt his stomach heave uncomfortably.

‘You’ll feel better if you eat something.’ Aramis told him, handing him a fresh chunk of bread but holding back on the hard cheese.

His stomach did settle with the bread filling it, though it took gulps of water to get it passed his dry throat. He let the conversation mostly drift around him. Though he was feeling more himself, his head still ached, and his limbs felt heavy, and concentration took effort. They were discussing returning to Paris, having 2 of them ride ahead whilst d’Artagnan recovered more.

‘I can ride.’ D’Artagnan put in during a lull in conversation.

‘There is no rush.’ Athos told him. ‘Porthos and I will ride ahead’

‘I can ride.’ He recognised the stubborn sound to his own voice, but it was the poorly hidden grin on Porthos’s face that drew his irritated look. ‘What?’

‘You are one stubborn whelp.’ The big man answered with a wide grin. ‘We should all go. It’s only an hour even at a walk.’

‘An hour?’ d’Artagnan couldn’t help echoing. All this, everything that happened, and he’d barely been an hour from Paris. It seemed mockingly close to home.

‘He could take it in turns riding behind us.’ Aramis suggested.

‘Is my horse limping?’ d’Artagnan interrupted.

‘Not noticeably.’ Athos answered after a pause. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘When he threw the shoe, he limped a bit. I worried for a tendon.’

‘He appears well rested.’ Athos noted.

‘Then I can ride him.’ D’Artagnan said, getting to the point of the question.

Athos seemed to almost smile, but he nodded without further argument despite a stilted splutter of indignation from Aramis, who stopped under Athos’s quelling look.

Aramis gave a bit more of a fight when d’Artagnan refused to stop for a rest after only 20 minutes in the saddle. He would admit he was tired, but it wasn’t the overwhelming exhaustion he remembered from yesterday. And he would also admit that his limbs ached and his head pained him, especially when he moved too quickly. But he didn’t need a break. And he told Aramis so from his place on the horse he refused to dismount from.

Aramis couldn’t seem to quite stop the grin, Porthos not even bothering to quiet his laugh. ‘What?’ D’Artagnan couldn’t quite stop the testy tone in his voice. Aramis’s grin widened at the tone.

He had a sudden flash, a memory of the monsters that he had imagined in the cellar, the three of them taunting him, mocking him, the hurtful words thrown at him. He shuddered briefly that even in that state, his mind had thought that his three brothers would ever do that to him. In the bright light of day, being able to see them all properly, he couldn’t quite understand why they had seemed so real.

‘Ok d’Artagnan?’ Athos asked, moving his horse closer and within arm’s reach.

D’Artagnan looked up and met his look, feeling something like relief as bad nightmares he had thought memories were put into their rightful place in his mind. ‘Yeah. Let’s get back to Paris.’ He said with a smile, beginning to feel right for the first time.

Athos looked back at Aramis and Porthos, and gestured for them to move. ‘You heard the man, let’s get back home. We’ve got a possible coup to put a stop to.’ As Athos looked back round, his hand rested briefly on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, the simple, fleeting touch grounding him further.

‘And some manacles to release.’ D’Artagnan couldn’t help but add to Athos’s words, holding up his bracketed hands, a water skin held securely in one. D’Artagnan couldn’t quite bring himself to release it just yet.

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**Thank you for reading. Please feel free to tell me your thoughts- reviews make my day!**


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